The Harem

by Paul Preston

  “You see, Dr. Bishon, I’ve observed him standing there every other Tuesday, not moving, sometimes for hours at a time in this catatonic state, staring out of the window,” McAdams said.

  “I see,” Dr. Bichon said. “Interesting. Why on Tuesday?”

  “Who knows?”

  They talked to each other like I wasn’t there. I felt the good doctor’s quizzical eyes upon me, warming my skin as they studied me.

  “What is he staring at so intensely?” Dr. Bichon asked.

  “I don’t know. He seems lost. Hasn’t uttered a word in the four weeks he’s been here. I’ve had no problems with him though. Keeps to himself. Doesn’t bother any of the other patients. Just scribbles wavy lines in the notepad all day and types letters and numbers into the laptop. Maybe he thinks he’s some kind of writer. I hear Dr. Billingsley is considering shock therapy on him.”

  Shock treatment! Oh shit, nobody mentioned that to me! Better wrap this story up quick before they zap my brain.

  “Nurse McAdams, I’d prefer you not to speak in front of the patient regarding his course of treatment,” Dr. Bichon said. “The patient can hear and understand everything you’re saying.”

  “Please call me Butch, Doctor Bichon. And I don’t mean to contradict you, but this patient can’t understand what we’re talking about. Watch…”

  Nurse McAdams approached me.

  “Jeremy. Did you hear what we just said? Nod to me if you heard or understood what I just said… Jeremy? See, Doctor. He’s completely unresponsive. I think ECT would help this patient come out of his depression. I know I’m just trained as a nurse, but if you want my advice, I think they should go through with the procedure. I’ve administered it several times, usually to very good effect on the patients here.”

  Christ. With McAdams at the controls, my brain will be fried.

  “I’ll take it under advisement,” Dr. Bishon said.

  “Oh, let me show you what he writes in his computer,” McAdams said.

  “Shouldn’t you ask the patient’s permission before you—”

  “He doesn’t even know we’re in the room, Doctor. Look at him.”

  Butch opened a Word Document on my laptop, showing pages and pages of random numbers and letters, grouped into small paragraphs.

  “See this Doctor? No one has been able to make sense of it.”

  “Hmmm,” Dr. Bichon said.

  As they leaned over my computer, Butch’s hairy forearm brushed against the starched white uniform of Dr. Bichon. Come on Butch. Really? You think you have a chance with her? Who’s the crazy one here?

  “So you’re from France?” McAdams asked.

  “Yes,” Dr. Bichon replied.

  “Have you been able to do much sightseeing here, Dr. Bichon?”

  “I’ve wanted to, but I’ve been much too busy.”

  “If you’d like, I’m off this weekend. I could show you around the monuments, museums, some important historical buildings. If you’d like to get out into nature, there’s a nice hike up Sugarloaf Mountain or better yet, we could go to Great Falls National Park. It’s beautiful there. It drives me crazy being cooped up in this place all week.”

  “That’s kind of you, Nurse McAdams, but I need to study for my Board Exams this weekend.”

  “There’s no need to be so formal with me. Call me Butch, Dr. Bichon. Here’s my card with my personal cell phone number on the back. Just send me a text if you’d like a break from studying.”

  “OK. Merci.”

  I felt Dr. Bichon approach me. My heart started beating faster, the closer she got to me.

  “Sheremy… Sheremy, can you hear me?”

  “You see, Dr. Bichon. He’s unresponsive to—”

  “What are you looking at out of the window, Jeremy?”

  I turned to Dr. Bichon and gestured with my eyes toward Butch. She immediately knew what I wanted.

  “Nurse McAdams, would you mind giving me a moment of privacy with my patient?”

  “Dr. Billingsley instructed me to watch over you until he returns from—”

  “Thank you, but I will be quite all right alone with—”

  “Though he’s been stable on his meds, some male patients admitted into this hospital have been known to—”

  “I no longer require your assistance, Nurse McAdams,” Dr. Bichon said with emphasis. “Please return to your nursing duties.”

  “OK, Doctor Bichon, if you wish.”

  Butch glanced at me before he turned to leave. Just to fuck with him, I gave him a little victorious half smile and made direct eye contact with him for the first time. He looked at me suspiciously before leaving the room.

  I turned to face Dr. Bichon.

  “Alone at last. Bonjour, Doctor…” I said.

  “Bonjour,” she replied.

  I smiled and stared directly into her eyes. With one deep look I tried to convey that, for me, this was not just a random moment in my life, but the special time when I found, by some miracle of good fortune, the woman I truly loved, hidden within the white antiseptic walls of this asylum. She took a small step back under the heat of my deep piercing gaze.

  “You look so pretty today, Dr. Bichon. One look at you and I’m cured. Merci, Chantelle, merci…” I said with an innocent smile.

  I saw the blood rush to her cheeks when I told her she was pretty and she broke eye contact with me instantly. I wondered if I had cracked through the hard outer shell she built to protect herself, or if I had gone too far with her. She took a breath, recovered her composure and looked back at me with a clinical stare.

  “It’s Dr. Bichon, Sheremy. Please address me as such.”

  “Of course, Dr. Bichon, of course. My apologies.”

  “No need to apologize…”

  An awkward moment passed. I looked out the window again

  “So, do you speak French, Sheremy? Parlez vous Francais?”

  “No, sorry. I’m afraid not, Dr. Bichon. Oui, Merci and Bonjour are about all I remember from high school French class.”

  “No matter. We can converse in English. I’m happy you’ve chosen to open up to me. Can you tell me what you’re staring at out of the window, Sheremy?”

  “Oh, at nothing in particular. I was just watching the maintenance crew mow the grounds of the clinic…”

  “I see. Well, we can talk further in your individual session. Perhaps you could direct me to the room where the sessions take place. I am a bit lost within the passageways of this hospital.”

  “It is a labyrinth here, for sure.”

  “I believe our session starts in a few minutes, no?”

  “Oui,” I said, smiling at her.

  I finally got her to crack a smile, even if it was a small one.

  “Follow me, Dr. Bichon.”

  We walked silently down the bright corridor, as if in a dream. I had the sudden urge to hold her hand, but of course I restrained the impulse. It didn’t seem natural to be walking with her without holding her hand. The white linoleum tiles under our feet seemed to elevate us off the ground, like we were walking side by side in the clouds.

  We sat down together in the private room. She organized the papers on her lap. One sheet fell on the ground and sailed gracefully toward me, landing near my feet.

  “I hope this isn’t the order for my lobotomy. I overheard what Nurse McAdams just said. He seems very anxious to pull the trigger on me. Since I’m talking again, can you guys not tie me up on the table and send volts of electricity through my brain please? It’s a little too close to the plot of One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest for me. I’m depressed, but I’m not that depressed,” I said, smiling and handing the paper back to her.

  “I must apologize for what the nurse said, Sheremy. Of course, now that you are communicating with us, the plan of treatment will be reevaluated. I will discuss the situation with Dr. Billingsley when he returns tomorrow.”

  “I wouldn’t mind undergoing the shock treatment, it’s just I’m worried that all that shaking may
mess up my perfect hair, Doctor.”

  She replaced the page in my medical file, without responding to my little joke. She appeared nervous around me. Perhaps that was a good sign.

  “You can smile once in a while if you’d like, Dr. Bichon. I don’t mind. Unless humor isn’t permitted in the field of psychiatry,” I said.

  She narrowed her eyes, and finally cracked a smile. I smiled back. Ah, a breakthrough! We began the session.

  “OK Sheremy. I’d like to ask you why you haven’t spoken to anyone at the hospital here, besides me, in the last four weeks. Do you know why?”

  “I guess… I was waiting for someone I felt comfortable with, someone I could talk to, someone like you, Dr. Bichon.”

  Dr. Bichon cocked her head to one side, studying me. She took a few notes on a pad.

  “I wonder what it is you just wrote in the file about me. Seeing you taking notes on what I say makes me feel like a lunatic, even if I know I’m completely rational. You know, when you’re admitted into a psychiatric hospital, Dr. Bichon, even if you’re communicating in the most coherent manner, everything you say sounds crazy, no matter what it is. I think it’s due to the surroundings. Hey, I’ve got an idea! As we talk, could you picture me in a Hawaiian shirt, sipping a Pena Colada with a big chunk of pineapple on the glass, or better yet, on a beach in the South of France, say in Nice for example, sipping on a glass of Bordeaux—”

  Dr. Bichon looked up from her notes.

  “Nice?”

  “Yes, Dr. Bichon. It’s a quaint little town on the Mediterranean Sea. If you haven’t visited the south of France you really must go. The water is so warm there; it has one of the greatest collections of museums of any city in the—”

  “I was born in Nice. I grew up there.”

  “Ahhh. Wonderful! Nice! How lucky you are to be born there. It’s one of my favorite places in the world. Magnifique! That explains the warm breeze I feel every time you say my name, Sheremy…”

  Dr. Bichon stared at me without speaking.

  “Uh-oh,” I said. “Who’s the one not talking now, Doctor? I know you’ve lost control of the interview. You broke the cardinal rule of psychiatry and revealed some personal information about your private life to the crazy patient. Don’t worry, I’m not Hannibal Lector and I won’t follow you to Nice, though I do enjoy a good glass of Chianti on occasion… I’m just kidding! You know I’m just kidding you, right?”

  “Of course, of course, Sheremy. I know you’re just joking.”

  “I suppose I shouldn’t be quoting from ‘Silence of the Lambs’ if I’m trying to gain your trust! It’s just that you take yourself so seriously, Dr. Bichon. I just have this irrepressible desire to make you laugh, to make you smile. Please try to relax around me. My diagnosis is quite simple, really. I’m just an underachieving son who feels responsible for his dad’s heart attack. If I was there to help him with the yard work, he never would’ve died… I’m depressed about it and feel guilty being here, rather than comforting my Mother, who I know is even more devastated by his death than I am. But I know in order to help her; I have to get my shit together, right?”

  “Yes, that is correct. Very good, Sheremy.”

  “Contrary to what everyone may think, I feel like I am slowly healing here. How was I to know Dad had a weak heart and blocked arteries? My parents never told me. If I had known, I never would’ve let him exert himself by mowing the back yard. Perhaps you’ve read in my medical file about my unfortunate episode with the lawn mower?”

  “I have, Sheremy.”

  “It wasn’t some failed attempt at suicide on my part. I cut my hands slamming it against the tree because I wanted to destroy the goddamn old thing with my bare hands. I suppose I looked like some kind of nut to everyone at the funeral, slamming the lawn mower against the tree in the backyard, over and over. No wonder I ended up here. My Dad was only sixty six when he died, you know. He was too young to die… Ah well, he’s gone and there’s nothing I can do to change that now. I suppose it’s time to forgive myself for his death and move on, right, Doctor?”

  “Yes, Sheremy, exactement. I’m mean, exactly. Perhaps you have heard of the Seven Stages of Grief. As we mourn the loss of a loved one, we work through the stages of pain and guilt, especially guilt. It sounds like you are attempting to work through the stages, from guilt and depression about your Father’s death, toward reconstruction, acceptance and hope. I’ll give you some printed materials to look at that may help when we meet at group tomorrow.”

  “Thank you, Doctor. I’ve heard of those stages and would like to study them further. Also, when Dr. Billingsley returns to his office, I’d like to meet with him before our group session and apologize to him. I know how hard he’s tried to talk to me and I haven’t given him much of a chance. Could you arrange that for me, Doctor Bichon?”

  “Certainly. But there is no need to apologize, Sheremy. Everyone mourns the loss of their loved ones in their own manner. May I ask you another question?”

  “Sure. Anything you’d like.”

  “Was your father’s passing and the depression you feel the only reason you shut down and stopped talking?

  “You’re very perceptive Doctor. There is another reason why I haven’t interacted with anyone here and kept to myself. To tell you the truth… I’ve been writing a novel.”

  “A novel.”

  “Yes.”

  “I see.”

  Dr. Bichon looked down at the notes in my case file. I tried to explain.

  “You know how some great actors get so lost in their parts that when you see their performances in a movie, you can’t distinguish the actor from the character they’re playing? Well, I feel that way about my writing. I’ve entered the imaginative world of my story so completely that I’ve kind of blocked out the outside world. That’s why I’ve been walking around here in a daze. I was concerned that if I tried to explain what I was doing to Dr. Billingsley, I thought he would consider me even crazier than he already did. With you, it’s different. I feel like I can open up to you about my writing, and you won’t judge me, or think I’m crazy. It’s the first time I’ve written anything like this, Dr. Bichon. It’s an exciting process, actually. Even though my story may never get published and not one soul may ever read it, I don’t care. I’m writing it, Dr. Bichon. Perhaps you know from my medical file that my Father was a brilliant physician, like I’m sure you are. I could never be as smart in the way that he was, but at least I can be a conduit of the creative force. That’s something to be proud of, isn’t it?”

  Dr. Bichon glanced up at me again like I was one card short of a full deck.

  “Yes, yes. I see. Tell me Sheremy, what is the title of your novel?”

  “Don’t be shocked, but it’s called, ‘The Harem’. Not to offend you, but… it’s an erotic novel.”

  “I see… You’ve been quite honest with me, Sheremy. May I be honest with you as well, even though being honest with a patient may involve some uncomfortable feelings?”

  “Sure.”

  “Please don’t be offended by what I’m about to say, but we can’t lead you back to mental health without telling you the truth, however painful it might be… Late one night, Nurse McAdams temporarily confiscated your computer and Dr. Billingsley read the documents you have stored therein. Sheremy, your novel is just a random group of letters and numbers. Perhaps you think you’ve written it in your mind, but you’re confused. Your story, ‘The Harem’, does not exist.”

  “Oh I know. I saw them take the computer that night.”

  “You did?”

  “I was pretending to be asleep when McAdams took my laptop away. I didn’t want them to see the real novel. It’s very personal and…sexual. I thought Dr. Billingsley might be offended by it, or as an academic, read too much into it. Not to mention he plays the part of my butler in it, which he might not like. So I created a substitute novel in my computer for them to read which they found, those random letters and numbers you’re referring to.”r />
  “OK. So if I understand you correctly, and I am trying my best to understand you, Sheremy, you know that, don’t you?”

  “I do. I appreciate that, Doctor.”

  “So, in your mind, you believe there is a fake version of your story, and a real one as well?”

  “The way you say it makes it sound like I have a screw loose, but yes, that’s basically it.”

  “Then tell me if you can, what is the real version of ‘The Harem’ about?”

  “It’s kind of embarrassing to talk about, but, as I said, it’s an erotic novel. I’m both ashamed and secretly proud that this story is within me. It’s somewhat based on what happened to me when my ex-wife—”

  Dr. Bichon leaned forward in her chair and looked me directly in the eyes.

  “Please Sheremy, listen closely. This novel of yours, “The Harem”, does not exist.”

  “I’m sorry, but you’re mistaken, Doctor. It does.”

  “Sheremy. Every file in your computer was opened and there is no story there. If, in the process of recovery from a traumatic event, one holds on to particular delusions—”

  “Would you like to read it, Doctor?”

  “The longer you hold onto these delusions, the longer it will take for you to recover from—”

  “Here it is…”

  I opened my clenched fist and held out the memory stick to her.

  Dr. Bichon slowly leaned back in her chair and nodded her head.

  “Ahhh. This is why you have the clenched fist. You have stored the novel here, on this?”

  “Yes. Go ahead and download it onto your laptop. Though it’s unfinished, I’ll let you read it. Please don’t show it to anyone else. Especially Dr. Billingsley.”

  “OK. I will keep the contents of this document confidential.”

  She took the memory stick from my palm and plugged it into the side of her laptop.

  “Keep in mind it’s an unfinished draft,” I said. “And it’s boldly erotic. I’m hoping you have the liberal open mind of the French. Please don’t be offended by it, Dr. Bichon. I know erotica, as a genre of literature, is certainly not for everyone, but I hope you don’t find it distasteful. It’s meant to invite the reader into a sensual world, but not to offend them, although I know unbridled sensuality is offensive to some people, most people really. Maybe you may find it interesting from a psychological perspective, seeing my subconscious mind spill into the story. Actually, I found that writing about my Father’s death was part of the healing process, as well as about another embarrassing and traumatic event which is depicted early in the story. After reading it, at least you won’t think I’m such a loony, I hope. When I’m finished writing it, I’m going to email it out to several e-book publishers in this genre and try to get it published. What the hell, right? So anyway, that’s what I’ve been up to here over the last four weeks. Writing. Oh and uh, don’t be alarmed, but… you’re a character in it.”